


Pomp and Flash

by Skylark



Series: HSWC 2013 [24]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, F/F, Fashion & Couture, Incest, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Public Display of Affection, Public Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 23:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're wreathed in white and violet tonight, all spikes and lace. You lift a finger underneath her chin and tilt her jaw up, step into the bubble of her personal space, and count to five. You breathe in the scent of her sweat and cologne, and hunger closes your throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pomp and Flash

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt:](http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/15805.html?thread=2552765#cmt2552765) Fashion AU. They’re two models on a tour and they make out in toilets and bathrooms and studios wearing expensive outfits not meant for intimacy! Bonus points if they drink champagne and make double entendres that most people don’t understand at the after-parties.

There are acres of tulle blocking you from your goal. Your eyelids flick coquettishly, weighed down by fake lashes, shadow and glitter, and your tongue swipes across your glossed lips, the strawberry taste sharp and cloying. Your shoulderpads go for miles, a matching set with her ridiculous skirt, and the two of you barely fit behind the racks of clothing.

You plunge your hands into the depths of Rose's dress and giggle, and she presses a manicured hand against your mouth to quiet you. Her nails are jeweled talons. Yours are just as dangerous, and you're careful not to snag them in your sister's dress as you lift it from her lap. She's not wearing underwear; it's a bad habit, one she learned from you. You always were a bad influence.

You duck your head until you're surrounded by whispering cloth, her heady scent all around you. You grin when you hear her breath catch, and lean in.

\--

You've never grown accustomed to touring, the breathless fluorescent energy of it. Fashion elevates you both to the status of mythical creatures beyond such mundane tasks as eating and sleeping, and Roxy gulps down an energy drink before slithering into her next dress. You watch the clean lines of her body as the straps are settled across her back, motionless in your chair as the makeup artist applies rouge to your cheeks.

Roxy does a quick twirl in five-inch heels and winks at you. You smile back, heedless of the admonishment to keep still.

The two of you come as a set; you always have. The catwalk is blinding, you can barely see where you place your feet in the sea of spotlights and camera flashes, but you strut with the ease of long practice. Roxy is a pinpoint of neon pink and black that grows larger as you approach. You circle each other, eyes locked, and the rest of the room falls away.

You're wreathed in white and violet tonight, all spikes and lace. You lift a finger underneath her chin and tilt her jaw up, step into the bubble of her personal space, and count to five. You breathe in the scent of her sweat and cologne, and hunger closes your throat.

She holds the pose as you do, but doesn't miss the look in your eye. _Later,_ she mouths, and you nod slightly, lips pressed tight.

\--

The seat is too small for both of you, which is exactly why you picked it. You drape yourself in Rose's lap, winding an arm around her shoulders and lifting a glass of champagne to her lips. “Drink up,” you coo at her, and she lifts an eyebrow.

The two of you are tucked into a shadowy corner. Everyone else is dancing, and even if anyone did notice you, there's no such thing as bad press. Still, it's impossible to stay unnoticed forever. Eventually someone else from your agency comes over and taps you on the shoulder.

“You gonna dance?” he shouts at you, barely audible over the thumping bass.

You shake your head. “Got better things to do,” you say as Rose's hand curls discreetly around your thigh.

He shrugs, says “Your loss,” and vanishes back into the crowd.

Rose has matched you drink for drink, and her eyes are dark. She plucks the glass of champagne from you, takes a mouthful, and kisses you. You can feel the liquid rush into your mouth and roll all the way down to your stomach. It's enough to make your toes curl.

“Let's blow this popsicle stand,” you say, disentangling yourself from her. She raises her hand and you take it, helping her up.

“I thought you'd never ask,” she says.


End file.
